


Spills & Thrills

by storieswelove



Series: Schitt's Creek Meet-Uglies [6]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Drinking, M/M, alcohol consumption of up to half a bottle of wine, another day another meet ugly, bad dates!, murder mystery parties!, stevie making bad jokes!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23706421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storieswelove/pseuds/storieswelove
Summary: Then, at 6pm exactly, the door opens, and in walks a guy with nice shoulders and cropped hair. David hopes this is his date, because Stevie refused to show him a photo, but this guy is cute and—Holy fuck, it’s Patrick.*David has a mortifying blind date he’s desperate to forget.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: Schitt's Creek Meet-Uglies [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554166
Comments: 73
Kudos: 353





	Spills & Thrills

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samwhambam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwhambam/gifts), [deathbysandblk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathbysandblk/gifts).



> For the prompters: I'm sorry it took me a lifetime (four months!) and you def don't remember prompting this, but I hope you like it! 
> 
> **Meet-Ugly prompt:** We were set up on a blind date but it went horribly, so now you message me every time you have a good date because you think your tips will help me in the future, you ass.
> 
> Part of a series based on the greatest set of meet-ugly (as opposed to meet-cute) prompts by [veronicariley](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/274308).

**Today**

David can’t believe he let Stevie set him up. Again. As if he wasn’t still paying for the last time. 

“David, trust me. This guy is exactly your type.” 

“He plays in your softball league. In what realm of what universe is that my type?” 

But in the end, Stevie won, because Stevie always wins. So David is sitting in a wine bar, drumming the fingers of his left hand against the table, swirling his glass of merlot idly with his right. For once in his life, he’s early, because he’s trying to get ahead of all the screwups of the last time. He looks up every time the door opens, but he has yet to see anyone who looked remotely like they were expecting a date. 

Then, at 6pm exactly, the door opens, and in walks a guy with nice shoulders and cropped hair. David hopes this is his date, because Stevie refused to show him a photo, but this guy is cute and— 

_Holy fuck, it’s Patrick._

David’s jaw drops two seconds before Patrick spots him. Patrick’s face goes from shocked to delighted alarmingly fast, and he lets out a laugh that carries, clear as bells, across the shop. It makes David’s stomach twist in knots. 

Patrick’s smile is still splitting his face as he approaches the table, and David is doing some rapid mental math trying to figure out: if it took him 32 years to find a best friend, does that mean he’s now doomed to be alone until his sixties? Because he is never speaking to Stevie again. 

“Hi, David,” Patrick says, hands shoved in the pockets of his skin tight pants. 

“What the _fuck_.” David practically hisses it, mortified and furious, his previously restless hand now clutching the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles have gone white. He moves to leave, because he may be a glutton for punishment, but even he knows he doesn’t deserve this torture. 

**Six Months Ago**

David is on, ostensibly, the worst date of his life. He doesn’t know what kind of karma he inflicted in a past life to deserve this, but he must have been like, a serial killer or a spin instructor or something. 

Stevie had set them up. Patrick was an old friend who had recently come out, and she’d insisted David would be into him. And, well, she wasn’t wrong. David _is_ into him. 

Patrick is cute, in an unassuming way, and he’s a great listener. He seemed genuinely interested in hearing about David’s gallery, and David’s views on romcoms, and David’s feelings about the tiny portions of food nice restaurants insist on serving. And Patrick’s smile must have magical properties, because it’s managed to quell David’s nerves the entire night.

Just not magical enough to save David from himself, unfortunately. 

So far David has managed to: arrive half an hour late, spill his entire glass of merlot on Patrick’s baby blue button up, go on a rant about finance guys with sticks up their asses before asking Patrick what he did — “I’m an accountant, actually,” he’d said with a smirk — and make a _very_ unfortunate-but-accidental innuendo about the size of the sausage he had ordered for his main course. 

So when Patrick puts his fork down after his last bite of chicken, David is ready to slither out of here with what little dignity he has left.

“Well, this has been—” David clears his throat. _Awful? A disaster?_

“What? No dessert?” Patrick is smiling at him, and it really must be something about that smile, but when has David ever said no to dessert? 

David orders bread pudding, and immediately regrets his decision when Patrick orders cherry pie. Damn. No way in hell is he going to draw any more attention to himself by calling the waiter back to change his order. 

But the pie arrives, and it looks _really_ fucking good. David isn’t proud of it, but Patrick is halfway through the slice when David puts on his flirty face and reaches across the table for a bite. Patrick laughs out loud.

The pie is incredible. He was right to steal a bite. He closes his eyes and savors it, tangy and warm, with cherries that have maintained their texture and just, _fuck_. He might not be making out with anyone tonight, but this pie is an excellent consolation prize. 

But then David opens his eyes, and Patrick is watching him almost...hungrily. _Oh._ Maybe he'll make out with someone tonight after all.

“So, um, you and Stevie met in an acting class? Do you still—“ David feels a weird tickle in the back of his throat and stops to take a sip of water. “—act at all?” But the water doesn’t help and the tickle is getting worse, somehow, and his neck is feeling just, really hot. 

“Uh, David are you okay?” Patrick says, and he looks more concerned than a cough should merit.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just,” and takes another sip of water.

“Are you by any chance allergic to cherries?” 

“What?!” David’s voice pitches obnoxiously high, but no way is he having an allergic reaction right now. “No!” 

“Okay well, your neck looks like it’s breaking out in a rash?” 

“Oh my _god_.” He reaches up with both hands to touch his neck, and yep, it’s hot and raised. This is so completely fucked that David can hardly believe it. 

“Can you breathe okay?” Patrick asks, even more concerned, and his arm twitches like maybe he’s going to reach across the table and touch him, but maybe David is just starting to hallucinate. 

David’s chest is tightening but he’s pretty sure that’s just the panic attack coming on, and he can still take deep breaths through his nose. So he’s probably not going into anaphylactic shock. Hands still on his neck, David nods. 

“Okay, here,” Patrick says, reaching into his pocket. “I have Claritin, it should help with the rash.” 

David pops the tiny pill, and in about sixty seconds he’s already feeling better. He shakes out his shoulders a little bit. “Um, thanks. For that. It’s helping.” 

Patrick smirks. “I guess that’s what you get for being a pie thief.” 

David buries his face in his hands. It’s officially time to go and bury his sorrows in a bottle of wine. 

*

David pays, because it’s all he can do to salvage his dignity, but Patrick doesn’t let the night end without one last mortifying sendoff. 

He’s stopped on the sidewalk outside the restaurant with his hands shoved in his pockets, looking up at David from under his eyelashes, clearly biting back a laugh, when he says, “This was fun. We should do it again some time.” 

Which is just. David has had a lot of bad dates, but Patrick is poking at the bruise before it’s even turned purple. “Okay, thanks so much. I think that’s my Lyft right over there so…” and he gives Patrick an awkward wave as he walks off.

**Five Months Ago**

David has almost managed to block out the entire Patrick affair, when he shows up to Twyla’s murder mystery party — a nightmare, but Stevie is so helplessly smitten with her that it’s almost pathetic, and he has to play the supportive best friend or whatever — and finds out that not only is Patrick there, but they’ve been assigned roles playing _husbands_. 

The night — which is surprisingly fun, David is willing to admit — is spent side by side with Patrick, who is _deeply_ in character, all familiar, flirtatious comments and casual touches. 

“Where were _you_ when the butcher was murdered,” Twyla says, jabbing her finger in the air at David and _wow_ , she is really bad at this. But she’s also loudly in his face, and it catches him off guard so much he starts to fumble his words — he really needs to practice breathing out when he answers, like Alexis taught him. 

But then Patrick — sorry, _Mr. Charles Franklin, esquire_ —is at his elbow, with a warm hand on David’s back, defending his honor. “How dare you accuse _my_ husband,” and wow there’s a British accent there, and David’s face is getting a little hot, “of — of committing such a heinous act?” he finishes with a wave of his hand, a scoff, and a wink at David, and David is going to have to lay down soon. 

*

And when Patrick is revealed to be the killer, he gives an impassioned, in-character speech at the room about preserving his husband’s honor after the butcher threatened to expose David’s secret gambling ring, and he flashes David a million dollar smile. 

God, that _smile_. David really, _really_ fucked this one up. 

*

He’s refilling his vodka — all pretense of a mixer out the window — and he’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t realize that Patrick is standing right in front of him until a “hi” surprises him so much that he spills his drink on Patrick. _Again._

This must be some kind of cosmic joke. 

Patrick runs off to the bathroom to clean up, and David finds Stevie talking to Twyla, and grabs Stevie by the arm so hard that she shrieks. “Let’s go, we’re leaving. _Now_.” 

“Um, no, we’re not—“ 

“Stevie.” He looks at her, frantic. “Now.” The panic does the trick. 

He’s three feet from the door when Patrick intercepts then. “Oh, you’re leaving? So, uh,” he looks at Stevie and then back at David. “Do you want to grab a drink soon? We can even go somewhere that puts lids on their cups.” 

Which, that was just too far. “Wow, this is really fun for me. I don’t just go around throwing drinks on people on purpose. Accidents happen!” 

And Stevie, like a gremlin at his elbow, says, “Yeah, David, I’ve heard you’re famous for your _oopsie-daisies_.” 

Frankly, Stevie is lucky the night doesn’t end with a second, legitimate murder — what a shame that would be, after Patrick _defended his honor_. 

**Four Months and Three Weeks Ago**

The messages start a week later. Patrick sends him a note about a _lovely guy_ he went on a date with who didn’t try to steal his dessert — accompanied by a link to a pumpkin pie recipe, _in case you need a new favorite pie_. David just responds to that one with a thumbs down. 

From there, it’s a steady drip of stories of guys who showed up on time for dates, who didn’t spill their drinks, and who didn’t insult Patrick’s career. And David, who makes just, _really_ healthy choices, opts to keep responding instead of blocking Patrick and moving on. 

Which makes it extra fun for him when Stevie and Twyla finally get their act together and get together, and David finds himself coming face to face with Patrick way more often than he cares to. 

**Four Months Ago**

David can’t stop embarrassing himself in front of Patrick. Tonight, he goes to shake Patrick’s hand, already an unbearably awkward move on David’s part, completely misses Patrick’s arm, and grazes his fly instead. 

“You’ll need another date first, David,” Patrick says, laughing, and David wonders if it’s possible to just melt into the floor. 

*

And David tries, just, _so_ hard to keep his composure around Patrick. Much harder than he would ever admit, that's for sure. But it’s like he’s fucking cursed whenever Patrick is around. 

Well, maybe cursed is the wrong word — probably more like flustered. Just constantly, unnervingly flustered. This crush is really fucking inconvenient. Especially because Patrick is, well — 

“He’s awful,” David tells Stevie after a particularly bad game night. David had lost at charades, Catan, and fucking _Uno_. Worse, Patrick spent twenty minutes needling David over his baby’s breath Givenchy sweater-and-pant set, which was just incredibly rude coming from someone whose entire outfit probably cost him $20. 

Was it made infinitely worse because he had hoped Patrick would notice how good he looked in? Absolutely. Did Stevie need that piece of information? Absolutely not. 

“Mhmmm,” is all Stevie gives him, but David decides to take it as an open offer plow forward.

“What kind of a jerk continues to harass someone they’ve had a bad date with? This is not a track suit! And a _rose_ pun? These aren’t even roses! Can’t he let me live with my embarrassment in peace?” David waves his hands in the air, increasingly frantic as Stevie drives them home.

“I’ve known you for how many years? And it _still_ shocks me how oblivious you are,” she says.

**Two Weeks Ago**

_Hey David, hope all is well!_ _Just got back from a great date — turns out, he was allergic to shellfish, so he opted not to eat my shrimp dumplings. Wild, huh? Anyway, hope that pitted fruit allergy hasn’t gotten any worse._

This stupid, cocky _dickbag_. David doesn’t know how many times he has to say that he didn’t know he was allergic to stone fruits! It wasn’t his fault that his body picked the worst date of his life to break out in hives after eating a slice of cherry pie — the literal cherry on top of the night, if you will. 

It’s been six months since his date with Patrick. _Six months_ , and this douchebag is still messaging him regularly to let him know about all of his _good_ dates.

Tonight, Patrick’s allergy message pops up when David is half a bottle of wine in, coming off a bad breakup with a woman he’d been seeing for six weeks, who told him he was _too high maintenance for a relationship_. So David is just fucking done with everything, but in particular with Patrick — he doesn’t need this from a smug, know-it-all _accountant_. No matter how good his ass looks in mid-range denim, and no matter how much his eyes sparkle when he talks. 

_Hey Patrick_ , he writes, _you seem to be going on a lot of first dates. Problems with follow-through, huh?_

Patrick writes back in less than a minute. _You know, you might be right, David. Any suggestions on how to get a cute boy to go out with me again?_

Ugh. David should drop this.

He should.

But tonight is not the night he learns his lesson, apparently. _Mmm, not sure I can help you, but have you tried spilling your drink on your date? It may not get you a second date but it sure does seem to leave a lasting impression_. Because, fuck it. Patrick has been teasing David for longer than David has even been able to maintain a relationship, so that must buy David a pass to be a little bit of a dick too.

_That’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll wear a matching tracksuit too. I hear they’re a classic. Any idea where I can get my hands on one? ;)_

Unfuckingbelievable. And now David can’t stop thinking about Patrick’s hands.

He throws his phone face down on the bed and knocks back the rest of his wine. 

**Today**

“Hi, David,” Patrick says, hands shoved in the pockets of his skin tight pants, smile radiant as ever. 

“What the _fuck_.” David practically hisses it, mortified and furious, previously restless hand now clutching the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles have gone white. He moves to leave, because he may be a glutton for punishment, but even he knows he doesn’t deserve this torture. 

But he’s only halfway out of his seat before Patrick reaches out an arm to stop him. “Come on, David. Have one drink with me. Please?” 

David doesn’t know what possesses him to lower himself back into his chair, except that Patrick had said _please,_ and, pathetic as it is, David isn’t used to people extending that basic courtesy, the sincerity of it tripping a circuit in his brain. He takes a sip of his wine. 

“Why,” he says, and takes another gulp, “do you want to have a drink with me?” 

Patrick’s eyes are twinkling, and he’s still smiling, like David just told a joke that David somehow isn’t in on. “Why do I want to have a drink with you? The guy who I’ve been hoping will change his mind about a second date for the last six months? Gee, I don’t know, David.” 

David slams his wine glass down, and a little sloshes out onto the table. He groans, but Patrick is quicker than him, already mopping it up with a napkin. It doesn’t deter him. “Okay, enough. As _fun_ as this has been for me, it’s _incredibly_ rude to keep waving that— _disaster_ of a date in my face. Like, what are you even doing? Isn’t six months of mocking me enough?” David hears his voice trembling a little and his eyes are stinging, and he fucking _hates_ this. Why does he like this asshole so much? 

That wipes the smile off Patrick’s face. He looks baffled. “David,” he says, and he sounds incredulous. “I have been flirting with you — not _mocking you_ — nonstop, for six months.”

“Okay, that’s not funny. And what do you mean _‘agree_ to go on a second date’? You have to ask for a second date for me to agree to one.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick says, rubbing his face, lips twitching into a smile. “David! I was just like, incredibly clear every time I saw you that I was interested in seeing you again. 

David’s brain and voice sputter in time with each other. “You—what? You’ve done nothing but make fun of me since we met! Our _entire_ date you mocked me!” 

Patrick scrubs his face again, but his smile is a little wider, if a little apologetic. “David, I’m really sorry. I was — I was teasing. I really liked you, and I was so nervous, and you seemed so flustered and I thought it might help? Like, I don’t know, we just needed to break the tension.” He puts up his hands in an apologetic motion, still smiling. Patrick is always smiling at him, David realizes. And it’s just _such_ a good smile. “Clearly, I missed the mark. Will you let me make it up to you, though? I’d really like to buy you another drink.” 

David looks down at his nearly empty glass on the table, and back up at Patrick. “I—yeah, okay.” David grabs for his glass to finish before they order more, but his hand fumbles — why the fuck does he keep doing this around Patrick?! — and before he can stop it, the wine is spilling. Except this time, it’s cascading straight toward—

“Fuck!” In an instant, David’s grey Givenchy baseball sweater is drenched in dark purple. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuuck!” 

He’s dabbing it with napkins to get the worst of it, but he needs to get this to his dry cleaner and let Rafael work his magic before this isn’t salvageable. David pulls the sweater over his head, and says a tiny thank you to whatever being or power in the universe kept his white t-shirt from staining too. “I need to go. I need to get this to my dry cleaner like, thirty seconds ago.” 

“Now? Your dry cleaner is open at 6pm on a Saturday?” Patrick is looking at David like David has just told him he’s actually an alien visiting from Mars. 

David blinks up at him. “For me he is. I probably single handedly cover his rent for the year.” He winces. He isn’t sure what’s worse, that he sounds like he’s constantly spilling drinks, or that he’s high maintenance enough to have special dry cleaning hours. Whatever. He reaches his phone and opens Lyft, and really, he should expect what he sees. “Twenty minutes for the closest car. God damn it.” The suburbs are hell. He closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath. It doesn’t help.

“David,” Patrick says, and David opens his eyes to look at him. “My car is just a block away. Why don’t I drive you?” 

David snorts. “It’s a half hour drive. You’re not going to —”

“I don’t mind. Please? I’ve been an ass. Let me make it up to you.” 

David sighs. It really is his best option if he ever wants to wear the sweater again. “Fine. Um, thank you.” 

Patrick beams. “Great. I’ll go grab the car while you close out?” 

*

David steps out of the bar and immediately misses his sweater. It’s uncomfortably cold. Patrick is idling right outside in a dark blue Nissan, and David climbs into the car to find that it’s not any warmer.

“Sorry, my heater broke this morning. I’m taking it in Monday, but until then…” Patrick says. 

David tries to subtly warm himself with his hands. “It’s fine,” he says tightly. 

Patrick looks over at him. He pauses for a beat and then reaches over his head to pull off his light blue sweater. His arms get stuck for a second and he has to do a little wiggling shuffle to get it off, at which point David distinctly _doesn't notice_ the way his t-shirt rides up in the back, revealing a simply obscene half-inch of skin. “Here,” he says, handing it to David. David waves it away, but Patrick puts it on the center console between them. “Okay, but I’m not gonna put it back on. So it’ll just be sitting here if you change your mind. Where to?” 

David gives him the address, which he pops into his phone and starts driving. 

They drive in silence for several minutes, nothing but the pseudo-soothing voice of the map’s app to cut through the tension. But his chest is starting to shake from the cold, so David caves and puts on the sweater. It’s softer than he expects, and smells like Patrick and — _oh_ , he recognizes Patrick’s smell. 

“Thank you,” David says again weakly, for want of anything else to say, and an anxiety that won’t allow him to stew in the silence any longer. 

“No, really—I’m sorry, David.” Patrick lifts one hand off of the steering wheel and rubs the back of his neck, his face sheepish in David’s periphery. “I’m embarrassed I misread this so badly. And Stevie uh, said you were interested? Which didn’t help, I guess.”

“Ah, well, Stevie never helps. But um, she wasn’t wrong. I was, um, interested.” It’s alarmingly honest for David to admit out loud to anyone, much less to a man who, up until twenty minutes ago, he thought he had less of a chance of a second date with than he does with Jared Leto. But he’s cold and tired, and there’s something about Patrick’s sincerity that makes him want to try for a little too. 

Patrick sighs. “Well, we have a...twenty seven minute drive ahead of us. Is there any chance of a...well, I guess like an eighth chance at this point.” 

David twists his mouth to catch his smile. “I’ll allow it.” 

“So...what’s your favorite color?” 

David actually laughs out loud at that, eyeing Patrick's dark t-shirt. “Black.” 

*

Rafael meets him outside — this isn’t David’s first after hours drop off by a longshot — and he’s back in the car in two minutes. 

“Thank you,” he says, twisting his mouth a little again, this time because he feels like he’s just going to word vomit if he doesn’t. His brain is working overtime to try to figure out if this is salvageable, but salvaging situations isn’t exactly David’s area of expertise. 

“I’m glad I could help. I could drive you home, if you wanted?” 

“Actually, um,” David says, and he’s way too nervous for someone who has been told on no uncertain terms the man next to him has been — is — interested in him for six months. “I’m starving. Do you want to grab some food or something? There’s a really good burger place—” 

“Yes,” Patrick says, a little eager, and David can’t stop his own smile. “Uh, yeah, I’d like that a lot.” 

“Okay,” David says, nodding, until he remembers that he’s the only one who actually knows where the place is. “It’s just like five minutes up this street,” he says, and points straight ahead, as Patrick puts the car in drive. 

*

“You were right, David,” Patrick is saying, halfway through his burger. “These are fucking amazing.” 

“Mmhm,” David says as he dips two curly fries — the superior of the fry family — in his strawberry milkshake. “The shakes are incredible too.” 

Patrick makes a little questioning sound in response to that, and before David catches on, Patrick has swiped one of his fries into David’s milkshake. “You’re right,” he says, popping the fry into his mouth.

“Dessert thief!” 

“Collecting on my cherry pie loan,” Patrick says, as he swiftly grabs another fry and dips it into the cup. “With interest,” he adds with a wink. But before he can actually get the fry in his mouth, the whopping mound of ice cream falls off of the fry and right onto Patrick’s shirt. 

“Oh shi—” Patrick hisses, trying to wipe it down with a napkin, which just spreads it into the navy t-shirt. 

And David just — well, he loses it. He’s laughing so hard that he’s starting to shake, fries completely missing his mouth, and Patrick’s face is flush. And after multiple wine spilling incidents, something about _not_ being the one to spill something makes David crack. “You see!” he says, still laughing, and handing Patrick a napkin. “It’s a _little_ mortifying.” 

“Okay, well, ice cream is a lot worse than wine! At least wine doesn’t dry — ugh — sticky!” he says, but he’s laughing a little now too, still scrubbing at his shirt, before looking up at David, who is still giggling a little. “Oh, c’mere you have ice cream too —” Patrick says, reaching across the table, napkin in hand, wiping the corner of David’s mouth, and everything is suddenly a lot less funny and a lot more... _something_. It occurs to David that, for the first time in six months, this needy, fluttery feeling of wanting Patrick might just be sated. Patrick pulls his arm back, smiles, and takes another bite of his burger. 

* 

Patrick is turning the key in the ignition and the engine is revving but it just won’t catch, and all of the mental planning and psyching himself up David did on the walk back to the car is sputtering away with the faltering engine sounds. Which is unfortunate, because he _really_ wants to kiss Patrick. He twists his hands in his lap and waits. 

Patrick tries three more times before he turns to David, looking apologetic. “Okay so clearly my car luck is terrible today. I’m sorry. Can I call you an Uber?” He has these giant, expressive eyes, and David isn’t sure how to cope with having them directed at him like this all the time. Fuck if he isn’t willing to try though. 

But right now, he has more pressing matters, because Patrick’s loud eyes and his pretty mouth are just _right_ there, and David isn’t going to make the same mistake twice. So he just. Leans in, and kisses him. 

David doesn’t love first kisses. They’re weird and filled with pressure and tension, and David just prefers to get them out of the way so he can move on to nicer second and third and fifteenth kisses, which are more fun and less expectations. 

But this one is — well, it’s lovely. It’s soft and sweet and a little open-mouthed, David’s hand on Patrick’s jaw, and David wants very badly to get his other hand across the console and just paw at whatever part of Patrick he can grab. 

But he doesn’t, paw or anything else, because this is about as far as his nerve is going to take him. He pulls back and looks down at his lap and clears his throat and he’s just really _great_ at this, isn’t he? 

Patrick huffs out a nervous laugh. “Thank you, David,” and his voice is all low and sincere, and when David turns back to look at him, his eyes are big and sincere too. “I wasn’t, uh, sure if you wanted me to do that after,” he lets out another nervous huff. “So uh, thanks.” 

“Mmm,” David says cleverly, but he can’t really focus because he’s too busy slotting their noses back together, because Patrick’s mouth is so soft and _right_ there and David can’t just leave it hanging. He could do this all night. 

But Patrick does eventually pull back, and David should be embarrassed by the little whine that slips out of him, he really should, but he isn’t, because Patrick just _looks_ like that and has that mouth and David isn’t sure he can be held accountable for much right now. “Okay, as much as I’m enjoying this, I really need to call a tow truck. The temperature is dropping and as it is I could be waiting a couple hours.” 

“Yeah, you could do that,” David says, and he’s feeling pretty good about his chances. “But uh, I actually only live a block away? And you shouldn’t wait in the cold. And uh, it’s probably going to be much easier to get a tow truck to come out here in the uh, morning.” Well, maybe he’s a little less confident than he thought he was. 

“In the morning?” Patrick repeats, staring back at David.

“We don’t have to — I didn’t mean. This is like, a no-pressure invite. And you don’t have to. I just thought, we were having a nice time and—” 

“No, yeah. The uh, morning would be great. For the tow truck.” 

The corner of David’s mouth turns up. “Great.” 

**Tomorrow**

“Weren’t you supposed to — oh god right there — call a tow truck or something today?” David doesn’t actually think he can go for a round four today, but Patrick is sucking on his neck and, well. Maybe. 

“Mmh, definitely. Tow truck. Later.” Patrick’s breath is hot and wet against his neck and, okay. Yeah. Later. 

**Author's Note:**

> [helvetica_upstart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helvetica_upstart/) put up with all my quarantine chaos, including ten hours today of trying to write a one line summary, so she's a real fuckin' hero. 
> 
> If you have a Meet-Ugly you wanna see, let me know which one in the comments or on [Tumblr @ storieswelove](storieswelove.tumblr.com/ask)! You can find the list [here](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/274308). As demonstrated by this, it might take me four months to fill, but I'll do my best!


End file.
